


Life Afterlife

by sallyhopewrites



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Bokuaka - Freeform, Closure, Five Stages of Grief, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Grief/Mourning, Haikyuu - Freeform, Haikyuu Angst Week 2020, Hurt/Comfort, In Another Life sequel, M/M, Magical Realism, cloud atlas references, sallyhopewrites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27346771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallyhopewrites/pseuds/sallyhopewrites
Summary: “Death is death and there’s not much we can do about it. But what comes after is in our hands.”The sequel toIn Another LifebyLittleLuxraythat nobody asked for—but which I simply had to write for myself.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 138
Kudos: 1077
Collections: haikyuu!!





	Life Afterlife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleLuxray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLuxray/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In Another Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5096105) by [LittleLuxray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLuxray/pseuds/LittleLuxray). 



> In _Cloud Atlas,_ Robert Frobisher writes in a letter to Sixsmith that “a half-finished book is, after all, a half-finished love affair.”
> 
> This story is my attempt to finish what was written by a different author five years ago.
> 
> Bokuto is my favourite character in _Haikyuu;_ Akaashi is his favourite person. Reading _In Another Life_ a week ago, I felt empty. After rewatching _Cloud Atlas_ I realised why that was.
> 
> The story needs to end. And death is not an end, but a door.
> 
> So I sat down and typed this out, as much for them as for myself. I’m surprised I finished this; I usually don’t finish things.
> 
> I thank everyone dropping by to read this. I hope it helps.
> 
> There are too many stories about the ones who leave. This is for the ones left behind, the ones who stay.
> 
> For Akaashi.
> 
> You can now also read this on [Wattpad.](https://my.w.tt/r746YNFhAbb)
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
>  [PDF version.](https://mega.nz/file/LNRWybpL#2vYY26rheYlaclCI2DIbFI5hyFtsOy4IkYChkIONCjM)
> 
> [Story playlist.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL9qwX08A95s71ZKUR1m7RhM3DU2mvCmNX)  
> 

# DEAD MAIL

  


  
  
  


SIX MONTHS AFTER the incident, Akaashi moves out. The parting is uneventful. His parents don’t question the reason behind his sudden decision. Only a quiet understanding exists that it was inevitable.

His new apartment is situated on the fifth floor of a high-rise in the suburbs of Tokyo. It cost him a fortune. For the past few months he saved a portion earned from his internships to finally go through with the plan.

The ‘plan.’

It’s simple.

 _Keep living._

A simple and difficult plan.

He lights up a cigarette and takes a drag. The sun is setting. It sets as it always has, as if the only one left permanently changed is him.

The balcony is the only part of the apartment that doesn’t remind Akaashi of a prison. He’s never been inside a prison and his place doesn’t look anything like the prisons depicted in movies, but resemblance hardly matters, does it? Anywhere you can’t breathe is a prison. And for Akaashi, that is now most of the places in his life.

An abridged list of the places in his life:

  * _The apartment._ He calls it Box. Box is usually a pretty clean guy, the kind with paperbacks arranged in alphabetical order and no strewn clothes on the floor. Some would say he is too clean. Akaashi likes him quite a bit if he were being honest. The kind of reluctant liking you develop towards a particularly grumpy cat.
  * _Old house._ Akaashi may have moved to his own place, but that in no way implies his parents won’t expect him to pay them a visit once or twice a week. He doesn’t mind; it’s only a train ride away. And this is the most he can do for them, anyway. They’re being surprisingly considerate of his entire ‘situation,’ so to speak. Although they’re none the wiser about what the situation is than they were six months ago. Still, they give him space and time. Perhaps, even the densest creatures can recognise the signals of grief.
  * _Kuroo’s apartment._ Which can also be passed off as Kenma’s apartment. It’s a bit farther, only a stop away from Shinjuku. The commute takes over 45 minutes. To compensate, the duo usually make plans ahead to meet up with Akaashi somewhere in the middle. They spend the evenings together, then travel back to their place. Sometimes they head over to a karaoke bar. Sometimes they wander aimlessly down the streets until they’re lost. Kenma doesn’t follow them on these midnight adventures.
  * _Hospital._ An actual job. Finally. The internships on his resume may or may not have made an impression. It pays well, so Akaashi doesn’t complain. The stink of medicines that once repulsed him has now become a part of him. Sometimes he’ll be lying in bed at night and smell it on his palms. Deep in his cells. Disinfectants and sanitisers. Home.



Akaashi flicks his cigarette and a long chain of ash drops in the empty beer can. The view from the balcony leaves him conflicted. It’s the cheap seat of stadiums: You get the gist of the game, but that’s about it. Akaashi can understand the sun is setting, but the sun itself is hidden behind the high-rise in front. He watches the gold melt down the glass windows, then vanish abruptly, swallowed by concrete.

A light flicks on in an opposite window. A steady yellow gaze. Twilight descends and more lights follow. A few minutes pass, then it’s dark outside. Hundreds of yellow eyes glowing in the night. They stare at him and he stares back.

Akaashi takes a deep breath and allows himself to think of the name.

 _Bokuto._

He waits. The bedside clock ticks the time. Five seconds, then ten.

 _Bokuto._

A whimper breaks free and is immediately drowned by distant horns and sirens below. Another cry muffled by the arm. Akaashi tastes the stray fibres on his sleeve. He wipes at his eyes frantically as the tears pour, wrenching away something as they leave.

The breakdown lasts for two minutes at most.

The clock beeps seven times and Akaashi straightens. Every night he curls around the rail and lets himself cry. A ritual he’s been religiously practising since the incident. The duration of his tears lessen with each passing day. It has gone from a few hours to a few minutes, all in the space of six months. There will come a day when he’ll no longer fall apart thinking the name. Akaashi doesn’t know how long that will take. It may be years from now, it may be tomorrow. Time seems to stop mattering when you’re mourning.

Is Akaashi mourning? Maybe he is. He can’t know for sure, he’s never mourned anyone before. But this must be what all the great literature and art speak of: Grief. Loss.

He stubs the cigarette out. Well, let’s look at the bright side. To be able to mourn someone like Bokuto is itself a privilege, isn’t it?

 _Pathetic._

He dialled Bokuto’s number a month after the incident. An automated voice told him it no longer existed.

 _Pathetic._

Someone at the funeral had gushed about how the boy had “died happily,” Kuroo told him.

 _Pathetic._

Akaashi has a brief but strong desire to run to the rooftop and scream at the top of his lungs.

 _Who cares if he_ died _happily? I wanted him to_ live _happily! I wanted him to_ live, _dammit!_

Someone in the opposite building starts practising the violin. Scales. The same notes on loop, sounding better with each play.

Akaashi comes inside and shuts the world behind. The music grows faint.

He flops on the bed and gathers the blanket around him. An inky blue, fading at the edges after several washes. It no longer smells of Bokuto.

“Don’t judge me, Box,” Akaashi mumbles into the wool. “I’m doing my best here.”

Box doesn’t reply. The clock keeps ticking.

  
  
❆  
  
  


The letters start arriving a month after. 

Akaashi has never needed to check the mailbox before, so he receives the first one from the security guard.

A thick, white envelope that fits in his palm. Decorated on its back with the silhouette of an owl and the outline of a crescent moon behind it. No return address anywhere to be seen.

Akaashi frowns and stuffs it in his pocket.

Once in his apartment, he takes a knife and slices it open.

Six pieces of paper, folded into the tiniest squares, flutter to the bed.

Akaashi studies them. They look like granules of sugar.

He unfolds one of them and reads it.

There’s not much to read. Only a single word.

**LAUGHTER.**

Akaashi blinks at the word. He’s confused, but the confusion is accompanied by something else, something he’s surprised to find.

Rage. Directed at the solitary word on white. As if it has somehow personally wronged him.

He swallows the emotion. It tastes bitter as it returns to his depths.

The next piece contains the word **MUSIC.** The remaining four: **BOOKS, ART, TIME,** and **STARS.**

Akaashi stares at the unfolded pieces, unsure what to do with them. The words don’t belong here, not really. Box knows _what_ they mean, of course, but not _how_ much they can mean to someone. They don’t mean much to Akaashi. There’s a shelf of books forgotten in a corner of his room. A few old rock vinyls collect dust under the bed. An impressionist art print he picked up on sale because it matched the blue of his walls. And as for _time_ and _stars …_

Akaashi goes to the balcony and cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the sky. Only the black void is visible. No stars in sight.

What’s he doing anyway, leaning over balconies? For what? For a word on an anonymous mail?

Akaashi gathers the pieces and throws them in the wastebin. The envelope almost meets the same fate, but he changes his mind at the last minute. It’s quite pretty, he decides. The owl with the moon ends up in the back of a drawer instead.

  
  
❆  
  
  


The next day is what Bokuto called a ‘White Day.’ As if all the colours of the world have been leached. Akaashi wakes up to find Box dressed in fog and shadows. The shirt is sticking to his back with sweat. It’s too hot and humid. 

Akaashi gets out of bed, grunting and muttering, and elbows a window open.

Something large and feathery thwacks him in the face.

He gives a yelp and falls back.

He hears the flapping of wings before he sees it.

Akaashi blinks. He rubs his eyes, then looks at the retreating figure again.

_An … owl?_

Akaashi remains frozen near the window for a long moment before struggling back to bed. He wonders if he should get his eyes checked.

On his way, he slips on something smooth and crashes to the ground.

He lies stupefied with his limbs sticking out in every direction. Is this going to be one of those days? Where everything is an unbroken string of disasters?

He rearranges to a sitting posture and goes to inspect what it is he slipped on.

An envelope. Thick, white, but nowhere near as small.

The owl stares from its perch in front of the crescent moon.

Akaashi stares back. The hairs on his nape prickle. He hesitates before reaching for it.

A piece of paper rests inside, this one thankfully without the multitudinous folds. It looks about as big as the posts held up in airports to find the respective passengers.

And it’s completely blank.

Akaashi holds up the empty sheet to his face. As he watches, words appear in a bold, black type.

  
**HEY [!] HEY [!] HEY [!] [...] WHAT THE [...] IS HE EVEN GETTING THIS? ARE YOU GETTING THIS AKAASHI? [!] WHY DON’T YOU JUST TELL ME IF HE’S GETTING THIS YOU DAMNED OWL? [!] AKAASHI IF YOU’RE READING THIS GREAT [!] I’LL FIND ANOTHER WAY SOON I PROMISE THIS IS TOO UNRELIABLE THE PUNCTUATIONS ARE ALL WRONG AND OH [!] MY [!] GOD [!] STOP SCREECHING IN MY EAR [!] [...] THIS MANGY BEAST. OI AKAASHI WAIT A LITTLE LONGER I’M WORKING ON IT SO YEAH [...] GREAT [...] HMPH [...] THIS IS ME BY THE WAY YOUR BOK**  


Akaashi stares at the page.

A string of emotions crosses his mind. They’re stated below in no particular order.

_Disbelief._ It’s not everyday you wake up to have an owl slam into your face with post.

_Anger._ A cruel, heartbreaking joke is being played on him. But who could be pranking him? Akaashi hasn’t even made proper acquaintance with his neighbours. No matter how hard he tries, though, he can’t shake the feeling of being made fun of.

_Yearning._ He doesn’t know what he’s yearning for, or even why anything about this piece of paper is making him yearn, but it’s there alright and he can’t deny it. Something about the words … about the way it ends …

_Hope._ Faint. Very faint, indeed. The last embers in a dying hearth.

Akaashi rereads the letter several times. At some point he has begun to cry. Hot, angry tears, maybe even a few grateful ones.

Upon finishing the letter on the nineteenth reading, Akaashi lets out a chuckle, which quickly builds into bubbles of hysterical laughter. And once it starts, it’s impossible to contain. Nothing particularly funny. Just that there’s something about the letter ending right in the middle of his name … It’s too much like _him._

_Your Bokuto._

Or BOK, as per the post.

The rage he swallowed yesterday rears its ugly head and lashes out, the way it tends to do at the oddest moments.

_What if it’s Kuroo?_ it says, reeking of rot and bitterness. _What if it’s all an elaborate plot to make you get over Bokuto?_

The laughter dies in his dry mouth. The rage subsides, having done its job.

Then the guilt arrives.

_How could I?_

_How could I?_

_How could I?_

The question repeats like a sermon in his mind. Akaashi doesn’t even know what the question is accusing him of. _How could I dare to think of getting over Bokuto?_ or _How could I dare to think it’s Kuroo when all he’s ever done is be by my side?_

Or maybe the guilt is completely unrelated. Maybe he’s guilty of wishing for a second he hadn’t met Bokuto. Maybe he’s guilty of wanting ‘healthy’ friends. Then this grief, this suffering, is his punishment. Maybe he deserves it. If you really get down to it, you can be held guilty of the slightest shift in your breaths that probably caused an avalanche somewhere in Antarctica and buried a bunch of penguins. Maybe all of us deserve to suffer.

Akaashi rises to his feet and makes himself a cup of coffee. His motions are mechanical. He’s on autopilot mode, choosing to do only what his muscles have already memorised.

Sip the coffee, blow on it, drink it, rinse the mug, place it back on the shelf.

He drops on the bed and sniffs the blue blanket. It just smells of him now. No trace of Bokuto left. None at all.

For some reason, Akaashi remembers the small piece of paper lying in the wastebin spelling out _Time._

His eyes fall on the discarded envelope and letter on the floor. And his gaze lingers.

Perhaps, it’s incorrect to say there are no traces left of a person so long as there are those who remember them.

Akaashi goes to the wastebin and retrieves the pieces of paper.

  
  
❆  
  


  
The third message doesn’t arrive in an envelope.

Winters in Tokyo are chilly and devoid of snowfalls. The city gets hardly a day or two of snow and that itself doesn’t last for more than a few days, if it collects at all. On the days it does snow, you can catch people huddling in front of spots or heaps of white and clicking pictures. Runny snow, full of dirt and mud, making everyone smile.

Akaashi stuffs his gloved hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. A woollen cap is pulled low over his head. He bounces on the balls of his feet as he stands on the street waiting for the bus. A drab bag hangs over his shoulder with a tiny name tag near its edge.

_Akaashi Keiji. Floor 3. Practitioner._

He gets on the bus and heads home.

His phone vibrates with a message from Kuroo.

_I’m nearby. You free?_

Akaashi pictures how he’d planned to spend the night. Probably roll around on the bed watching a mind-numbing series. Or rewatch a movie.

_Not Cloud Atlas._

He agrees with his subconscious. Anything but that.

He texts Kuroo back.

_Sure. Come over._

He sends it, then adds another text.

_Bring food._

When he keeps his phone and looks out the window, it has started to snow.

Akaashi leans his head against the glass and sighs. It fogs the window.

A year has passed. He’s made it through a year. The thought doesn’t make him feel much.

It’s been months since those uncanny incidents. Akaashi has chalked them up to glitches in reality. Errors in the system. For a moment he saw the matrix before it closed around him.

By the time they reach his stop, the snow has begun to collect.

He asks the security guard if there are any letters for him, a habit he’s acquired over the past months.

He’s greeted with the same response: a distracted headshake.

Akaashi takes the stairs instead of the elevator.

He reaches the fifth floor and freezes.

The ground is dusted with snow. A thin trail runs from underneath his door to the window in the landing.

_The window?_

He kneels on a spot free from crime and studies the trail.

Paw prints in snow. He’ll bet on a cat.

What was a cat doing here? Why is there snow all around?

Alarm bells go off in his head and he dashes to the apartment.

The trail continues inside, wrapping his entire bedroom in a fine coat of snow.

The paw prints stop near his bed. There the powder has been cleared to form a sentence.

Only two words.

**STOP DECAYING.**

On his bed sits an enormous owl blinking at him with dainty, yellow eyes. Small white feathers flutter in the chilly breeze. A red bow sits between its ears.

A piece of silver paper is tied to its ankle.

Again, just two words.

**FOR YOU.**

In smaller type under that: **✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧**

Behind it: **HE’S A ‘HOOT.’ (ˊᵕˋ)**

Akaashi doesn’t know if he should cry out of joy or dismay at the absolute mess of a present.

He shuts down all his questions for later. There will be time for them. The snow needs to go before it melts and seeps to the floor below.

He heaves a deep, long sigh and chucks his bag on the table. The cap and jacket follow.

Faintly he wonders if this is what life would’ve been like if he had a life with Bokuto.

Then he gets to work.

He bows deeply to the security guard, apologising several times before asking for the long broom he spied near the mailboxes. The man notices his snow covered shoes but doesn’t comment on it. He waves the boy away, saying it’s alright as long as it’s back by tomorrow.

Akaashi flies back to his apartment and begins to sweep furiously.

Left, right, the broom swishes and swerves. Under the table and under the bed. Clouds of snow puff up everywhere. His room starts to vaguely resemble a drug den. Akaashi glances out the window once to see if the snow has stopped falling, but it’s only grown stronger.

Hoot, the owl, watches him all the while, tilting its head to keep up with his movements. At one point he goes to sweep behind the bed and it turns its head completely.

Unnerving.

“Please don’t do that,” says Akaashi. “Why not turn your whole body? Exercise a little.”

Hoot blinks at him with those achingly familiar eyes. Then it adjusts its posture to face him, flapping its gigantic white wings like an angry rooster.

A small part of Akaashi dies at the thought of having to take care of this creature here onward. What does it eat? What do owls eat? Off the top of his head—mice, snakes, squirrels, frogs. He pictures himself bringing them home. Mice in his pockets, frog under his collar, snake around his neck.

Despair, utter despair.

Maybe he doesn’t have to keep it. Maybe Hoot will fly away if he shoves it out the window.

Then he eyes its claws and decides not to try anything as violent as shoving just yet.

A bucket half-filled with snow stands at the entrance of his apartment. Spoils of war. By the time he has returned with the snow filled dustpan, it has melted to fill the bucket to the brim with water.

Akaashi huffs and goes to drain it in the bath. While in there, he hears footsteps in the corridor.

They slow, then halt.

Kuroo’s voice rings out in the quiet.

“What on earth’s happened here?”

Akaashi appears from the bath, sweating all over in the winter chill. There’s a rag on his shoulder, one around his head, to quickly swipe the snow from the window ledges. He caught his reflection in the mirror a moment ago. He looked rather scary.

He’s not surprised when Kuroo takes in the sight and bursts out laughing.

“You look like my mum during spring cleaning!”

He goes to enter the apartment and is promptly stopped by Akaashi with a smack on the feet with his broom.

“I will clean,” he says, menacingly. “Then you’ll enter. Now sit outside.”

Kuroo peers into the room, the package of food swaying in his hand. He begins in a meek voice, “I can just sit on the b—”

_“Outside.”_

The boy mutters and obeys, sliding down the wall like a dejected lizard. He offers to help at one point only to be warned to stay where he was.

Three more buckets later, Akaashi stands at the entrance, hands on his hips, positively beaming. The broom has been returned and all is right with the world again.

Kuroo takes one look at his expression and recoils.

“You’re scaring me, man.”

“Just as well,” says Akaashi. “Come in.”

When Kuroo enters the bedroom, he understands why he couldn’t have waited on the bed.

“Is that—?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

The older boy remains standing, clearly unsure of where to sit now that his perch has been sabotaged. Akaashi stands beside him, staring at Hoot pecking at its feathers.

“Is there a story behind it or did you just find it sitting here with a bow on its head?” Kuroo asks.

“Bokuto,” Akaashi says, simply.

Kuroo is quiet for so long that he wonders if his friend hasn’t heard him. He refuses to break the silence. He waits for the boy to process the information, giving all the time he needs.

When Kuroo finally speaks, he sounds fragile.

“Bokuto?”

“Bokuto,” Akaashi repeats.

Kuroo exhales. The breath rattles his whole body. He shuffles over to the table and hops on top of it.

“Please elaborate,” he says.

In response, Akaashi retrieves the envelopes from the drawer.

Kuroo reads the contents with a concentration he usually reserves for anything associated with Chemistry. With each second, his head lowers further until it’s buried in the red scarf wrapped around his neck. There are stripes of red on his leather jacket, too. Always subliminally coordinating his outfits.

Upon finishing, he looks up at Akaashi with unreadable eyes.

“Is this a joke?”

Akaashi folds his arms. “It seems like one, doesn’t it? I thought you were playing a prank on me. Like you’re thinking I’m playing one on you.”

Kuroo fumbles with his hands. “But that would mean … Bokuto … ” A lost look takes over his dark eyes. “Is he here with us? Right now?”

Akaashi catches Hoot glancing between the two boys with interest. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I think it takes a lot of effort to be able to talk to us from … wherever he is.”

“Wherever he is,” repeats Kuroo.

“Yeah.”

Kuroo falls into another one of his quiet stupors, but this time there’s a smile on his lips.

“At least, he’s _somewhere,”_ he says. “I’m glad.”

He gazes at Hoot and beckons him.

Akaashi doesn’t think the bird will obey; he’s proven wrong when it not only flies to sit on Kuroo’s arm, but nuzzles against his cheek.

Kuroo shakes with laughter as he removes the bow. “That bastard,” he says. “He actually managed to defy death.”

“Do you really believe that, Kuroo-san?”

Something in the voice makes him look at the boy.

Akaashi sits on the bed, his posture slumped. He looks exhausted, and the exhaustion runs deeper than sweeping snow for the past hour. He looks like Atlas trying to carry the earth on his shoulder.

And he’s failing.

Kuroo opens his free arm for him. Akaashi pauses before accepting the hug.

It’s too warm, but he wouldn’t break contact even if an earthquake were to occur now. There’s no substitute for a person who truly cares for you. Akaashi rests his head on the shoulder and feels the yellow eyes watching him from the other shoulder. He glances at Hoot and smiles.

The owl tilts its head at just the right angle that erases almost all differences between it and Bokuto.

An ugly sob wrecks its way out of his chest and Akaashi turns away.

It’s like the laughter that took hold of him when he received the last letter. Once these downpours start, they’re difficult to contain.

The hand around him tightens as if trying its best to keep him standing. Or trying to keep them both standing.

Akaashi doesn’t know how long he cries. When he looks out the window, twilight has fallen. The bedside clock beeps seven times, and like clockwork, the aspiring violinist begins to practise.

Something shines in his peripheral vision. Akaashi leans to catch a glimpse of it, almost knocking Kuroo over. Hoot gives a loud hoot—the first sound it’s made—and returns to settle back on the bed.

Venus is visible tonight. And beyond that, glows a single solitary star in the sky.

  
  
❆  
  


  
“He couldn’t even send a complete letter.” Kuroo takes a long sip of his beer. “What a dumbass.”

“Maybe it’s a bit harder than just strutting into the post office for the dead, you know,” Akaashi says, drinking his own beer.

Kuroo points a finger at him. “Stop being sassy, young man. You’ve always been too easy on him.”

“You wanted me to be hard on him? He was _dying,_ for fuck’s sake.”

“Why would you treat someone differently just ’cause they’re dying? People are people, whether they’re living or dying. And they deserve to be treated as such.”

“You’re drunk, Kuroo-san.”

“I most certainly am. That’s when I’m honest.”

They’re halfway between the balcony and the bedroom. Akaashi likes to imagine he’s marginally less drunk than Kuroo, but they’re both quite drunk for it to not make a difference. The snow has stopped. There’s a delicious smell of homemade Okonomiyaki in the air.

“What was he like in school? Bokuto-san?”

The question takes them both by surprise. Akaashi wasn’t planning to ask it until he had. Or he’s been planning to ask it for the longest time and never dared to before.

Kooru seems to put a lot of thought into his answer before responding. “Loud. Childish. Innocent. Strong sense of justice. Very moral.” He pauses, then tsk-s. “I sound like a report card.”

“Maybe I asked the wrong question. What did _you_ like about him?”

Kuroo looks at Akaashi for a moment before pondering over the question.

“I didn’t have to fence with him,” he says at last.

“I’m sorry?”

“Fencing. The sport. Heard of it? Yeah, that. Most people you meet, you’ve got to try and figure out how to fence with them. If you can keep the fight going, you get along; if your swords clash too often, you don’t get along. That’s all it is.”

Kuroo leans back until he’s lying on the floor, hands behind head, eyes closed. “But then there are those like Bokuto,” he says, “with whom you don’t need to fence at all. You don’t need to be on guard, don’t have to figure out ways to get along. Imagine having such a person in your life. And then having them taken away.”

Akaashi doesn’t want to imagine. He’s spent the past year doing exactly that.

So he says the only thing he can think of to say to fill the silence.

“I love him.”

Kuroo chuckles.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving him,” Akaashi says.

“Why would you?”

The simple question hangs between them until it sinks like deadweight. Indeed, why should he have to stop loving the ones who have left to be able to move on? Why can’t he carry the love and the loss with him forward? It doesn’t have to be a burden. Doesn’t have to be a planet resting on his shoulder. It can just be a layer under his skin. And the more he’ll love and lose, the more layers will be added beneath.

“I’m cold,” Kuroo says suddenly. “Hand me the blanket.”

Akaashi wants to tell him it’s futile, that it no longer smells of Bokuto. But he doesn’t have the heart to deny Kuroo.

He rises to his feet and lurches to the bed. He fumbles around for it.

Five minutes later, he’s on his hands and knees, turning the room upside down, looking for it. Kuroo has joined in the search. The blanket is nowhere to be found, and neither is the burgundy scarf Akaashi treasures so much.

Hoot has disappeared, too.

After what feels like hours of searching, they flop on the floor and lean against the bed.

“I don’t want to say it,” says Kuroo, “but I have to. Were we hallucinating this whole time?”

“Why would we have the same hallucination?”

“Touché. But isn’t that how it goes in movies? That it was all a dream or something?”

Akaashi stifles a yawn. “Stop talking of dreams, it’s making me sleepy.”

“Then sleep. I’ll clear away the plates. Where’s the trash, again?”

Akaashi vaguely gestures in the direction.

“Cool,” says Kuroo. “Now sleep. And don’t wake up until noon.”

“Don’t curse me like that,” Akaashi says as he climbs into bed and under the new, foreign blanket.

He listens to Kuroo tinkering around the room, washing plates and glasses and throwing away beer cans, and before long drifts off to sleep.

He’s woken up by a knee jabbing into his waist.

Akaashi grunts and tries to swat it away. It’s replaced by a hand jerking his shoulder.

He gives a tremendous yawn and opens an eye.

Kuroo is beside him on the bed, sitting straight up and staring straight ahead at something.

“What is it?” Akaashi mumbles.

Kuroo doesn’t reply. Instead he nods towards their feet.

Akaashi rises on his elbows and follows his gaze.

He frowns.

“Please tell me you see him, too,” Kuroo whispers.

“I do.”

A young boy stands at the foot of the bed. Or maybe not young, just short. A head full of wild, orange hair. Curls and waves rolling over each other. His eyes are a warm brown and in the morning light they shine like glaze on chocolate.

Akaashi ends up in the same still posture as Kuroo.

“Who’s he? How did he get in?”

“No clue,” says Kuroo. “I woke up to find him standing there and grinning at us.”

“Creepy.”

“Yeah.”

The boy clears his throat. “Excuse me. Please don’t speak about me like I’m not here.”

The two fall silent. The boy has a childish voice with a strange accent. Maybe he’s young _and_ short.

He plays with the button on his collar as if nervous. Now that sleep has completely deserted Akaashi, he notices the boy is wearing some very strange clothes. More like a costume, really. A white ruffle blouse, black shorts with suspenders. A red bowtie reminiscent of the one sitting on Hoot’s head yesterday.

Speaking of Hoot.

“Did the owl—?” begins Akaashi.

The little boy gives a bright smile. “Hoot is with me, don’t you worry. Bokuto-sama wanted to talk with you properly and he was getting angry with how useless our owls were, so he decided to get you your personal owl.”

There’s so much to unpack in that sentence, Akaashi doesn’t know where to begin. Kuroo speaks in his stead.

“Where’s he now? Where’s Bokuto?”

“Corsica,” the boy replies, quite serious.

Kuroo blinks. “Is that a code for something?”

“It’s an island near France,” Akaashi says. He doesn’t quite recognise his own voice. It sounds too hopeful, too naïve. Pathetic. He sounds like a child who still believes in Santa Claus and is waiting to find presents under a Christmas tree.

 _I believe we do not stay dead long. Find me beneath the Corsican stars where we first kissed._ Cloud Atlas. Robert Frobisher says that to Sixsmith in the movie.

Akaashi closes his eyes. Why now? Why after over a year is it coming back to haunt him? Why, when his breakdowns are finally growing shorter?

The little boy is nodding at him enthusiastically. “Bokuto-sama said you’d know.”

He bends and retrieves a little blue sack from the floor. Akaashi didn’t notice it before.

The emptiness inside him momentarily vanishes. He scowls at the fabric. Something about it …

“Is that _our_ blanket?!”

Both Kuroo and the little boy startle, but the former has quicker instincts and manages to snatch the bag away from the small hands.

The numerous knots the boy had tied come undone, dropping all the contents on the bed.

There was a lot of content inside. In fact, Akaashi is fairly certain it’s logically impossible that a little sack could’ve contained so much.

An incomplete list of contents previously in a sack, now on the bed:

  * Stacks and stacks of letters. Bundles ranging from small to ones that would reach his knees. Envelopes varying in sizes, bearing the same owl and moon logo.
  * A giant frog that leaps from the bed and disappears.
  * Akaashi’s burgundy knit scarf, devastatingly balled and rumpled.
  * A box of Pocky with a large and shiny red bow on it.
  * A very cute black kitten that mews and dashes into Kuroo’s sleeve.
  * A corked potion bottle containing … _hair?_ Loose strands of hair. Akaashi peers inside and feels his heart stop. The strands are a pitch black near the roots and tipped with white.
  * An ornate mirror that reflects nothing. The glass is black, almost opaque.



The orange-haired boy bows deeply and repeatedly, apologising for the mess he has created. Kuroo is trying to do the same, but is a bit preoccupied with the kitten running up and down his arm inside the sleeve. When it peers from underneath the collar, he grabs it by its neck. It fits neatly in his palm.

A gust of wind blows in through the open window and sends the letters flying. Words across space and time scatter all around Akaashi’s room like feathers from a torn pillow. They land on the floor, on the table, on the bed. A few get blown to the balcony only to curl around the rails, clinging for dear life.

Akaashi runs after them. As he bends down to save them, he hears the telltale sound of the flapping of wings. Hoot appears from nowhere, swoops into the room, and is out of the window in a flash, the frog in its claws.

Akaashi stares after the retreating mass of white, at a loss for words. Kuroo has a hand placed protectively over the kitten.

Well, let’s look at the bright side. The bird finds its own food. No need to bring home rodents and reptiles for dinner.

After the chaos has died down a bit, the boy tells them why he’s here.

Bokuto has sent him. The feisty young man has been wreaking havoc in the headquarters of ‘Dead Mail,’ trying to have his letters pass to the realm of the living. He can be quite scary when determined, the little boy says, only half-joking. When he realised it’s impossible to truly know if his words will ever reach the ones he left behind, he hired a personal butler to bring Akaashi to the thinnest portal between the two realms: Corsica.

The boy will be escorting Akaashi to the island and back. He and another escort, that is. Someone who clearly takes his job lightly, the boy mutters, and should probably be fired if he continues being so casual. He grumbles at length about this mysterious person. Akaashi concludes they’re not exactly bosom friends.

All the arrangements have been made. Bokuto hasn’t been sitting idly for the past year, it seems. For an instant, Akaashi has a vision of his gravestone which he has never dared to visit. He imagines it to bear the catchphrase: ‘R . I. P.’

Trust Bokuto to reject both rest and peace.

Kuroo’s voice slices his reveries. “Hold up,” he says. “What do you mean by you’re here to escort him? What about me?”

The little boy is speechless for once.

The hazel eyes blaze. “Do you mean to say he only sent you for Akaashi?” Kuroo asks.

The boy looks like he wants the ground to swallow him. He must be remembering all the instances in history when the messenger was killed because the message was disliked.

Akaashi goes to calm his friend, but Kuroo shoots him down with an impressive glare. He turns to the boy.

“Either I come with him, or none of us are going.”

“Don’t speak for me,” Akaashi says.

“I’m not speaking for you, I’m _threatening_ the two of you.” Kuroo rises to his feet, using his six feet of bones and muscles to tower over them. “I’m coming with you. This isn’t up for question. And as for that frosted asshole, I’d like to have a word with him when we meet. How dare he forget his best friend just because he found a lover?”

Akaashi blushes and scrambles to his feet. When cornered, always use your whole height.

“I’m not his _lover!”_ he protests.

“Oh? Maybe an ‘intimate’ friend, then?” Kuroo scoffs outright. “Don’t make me laugh, Keiji. You’re ready to follow a weird tangerine boy across the world at the drop of a hat because he promised Bokuto will be waiting for you at the finish line. Why? Because you care for him as a friend? _Kenma_ cares for him as a friend! You think he’d do this? You think _I’d_ do this on my own? Admit it, goddammit. You love him as more than a friend, and it hurts that he left before either of you could do anything about this … this _love_ you have for each other. This is why that idiot’s creating chaos on the other side, and you’re appearing more like a zombie with each passing day.”

He leans over the bed and looks Akaashi in the eye. “I’m so fucking _tired_ of seeing you this way. I was supposed to be the saddest one, dammit. You can’t just waltz into his life and … and love him so deeply … and then have the audacity to deny it. You’re insulting him and you’re insulting yourself. I’m going to say this for the first and last time, take it or leave it: Stop hurting.”

_Stop decaying._

The room dissolves around him and Akaashi is back in his dream. The sun is setting. He’s lying in bed with Bokuto in his arms. A healthy Bokuto, beaming and glowing. They embrace each other and whisper: _I found you. You found me._

The dream drains into a recurring nightmare. Akaashi is trying to stay afloat in a pool of tar even as it enters his nostrils and mouth. There’s no air and he’s suffocating. The feeling is familiar. This is how it feels to follow his simple plan. To _keep living._

And then, unbidden swims a word across his mind; it makes the tar he’s drowning in sparkle and shine.

_Stars._

What better place to find them than in the dark?

The present calls to him. Kuroo is waiting for his response.

Akaashi takes a deep breath. “I’m not his lover,” he repeats. “But I’d very much like to be. When do we leave?”

Kuroo sighs. He straightens and smiles. Akaashi never realised how much he was worrying the ones around him. Grief tends to do that. It cocoons you from the world to writhe in your own hurt. He _has_ to reach out. He has to reach out to the stars in order to keep living.

But the stars are too distant. Maybe he should start with something smaller. Maybe he’ll call his parents today and thank them for giving him space. Let them know he’s better now.

The little boy exclaims with joy. He doesn’t like to see people fighting, he says. Although he has no problem starting one if necessary. In any case, they’ll set out in two days, so “pack all you need, leave all you don’t.”

He promises to pick them up from here sharp at midnight. If any doubt, voice it to Hoot; he’ll be the messenger between the two realms.

He pleads and prods until Akaashi gives him consent to use the blanket as his personal bag. Apparently, it’s just the right size for his needs.

He discreetly picks the unreflective mirror and puts it away.

The corked potion bottle filled with hair was for insurance, he tells them. If they had doubted for a second it was Bokuto who sent him, he would’ve thrown it in their faces to get the DNA tested. Which sounds mighty fine, but is ultimately unnecessary in this case.

The kitten vehemently refuses to return to the makeshift sack. Kuroo doesn’t seem all that inclined to part with it, either. The boy raises a weak objection—“It’s not a part of your parcel!”—before relenting. Nobody seems to be capable of denying Kuroo.

The letters and the box of Pocky are all for Akaashi. “Take your time making your way through them,” says the boy. “Bokuto-sama spent a year writing these. You don’t have to finish reading in a day.”

As for the scarf.

“You stole it,” Akaashi accuses.

The boy blushes. “I had to. Bokuto-sama insisted I bring it back to him.”

“He could’ve just asked for it while he was alive! I would’ve wrapped it around his throat before they locked him in a casket.”

“Well, he didn’t know it wasn’t the end, did he?” The boy sounds frustrated. “None of us know until after. He’s just … a bit more demanding of life than most.”

Kuroo sniggers. “Understatement. I like you. Now get going and let us pack. And take the scarf with you. Tell your Bokuto-sama I’ll choke him with that when we meet.” He glances at Akaashi. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind letting go of the scarf or mind having it choke him?”

Kuroo winks. “Attaboy.”

He cups the kitten between his palms. “This is Chibi and he’s staying with me,” he says. “Say hi, Chibi.”

The kitten hisses.

The boy’s shoulders slump. He smiles at the tiny ball of fur.

“Hey, Chibi. This is Hinata. And I’ll be escorting you to the other side.”

  
  
  
**●**   
  
  


# CHANCE AND FATE

  


  
  
  


CINDERELLA MUST’VE FELT this way before her ball.

Akaashi stands on the street shivering in his boots. A stuffed mountaineer’s bag rests on his back. It’s nearly December. Soon it’ll be Christmas and Tokyo will be decked in bells and fairy lights.

Thankfully, it hasn’t snowed again. He can understand how Bokuto might’ve liked it, but the aftermath … Chains on tyres, shovelling and sweeping, mud everywhere. He wonders if the fleeting beauty is worth the hassle that follows.

Kuroo stands beside him, looking every bit like a rich, awkward tourist. Branded clothes with the tags still on. Hair styled with gel before he remembered it’s winter and he’ll be wearing caps throughout the trip. A pert suitcase with shiny, spotless wheels. Akaashi thought him to be rather suave when they first met, but the longer he stays with him, the more he realises that underneath the layers of charisma and intelligence is a disastrously clumsy boy who might respond with “Same to you” if you wished him a Happy Birthday.

Hoot is circling above them, an orbiting dot in the sky.

Chibi has remained behind with Kenma. The two took an instant liking towards each other. When Kuroo was asked where he found it, he said the truth and was instantly disbelieved.

“Why couldn’t you just tell him it was abandoned in a park?” Akaashi asked.

“I don’t lie to Kenma,” is all Kuroo said.

Akaashi is beginning to see how he ended up becoming Bokuto’s best friend.

As the time crawls towards midnight, the temperature drops. It may snow again.

Akaashi looks over his shoulder. The two of them are earning discreet, sidelong glances from the security guard.

“We look suspicious,” Kuroo remarks.

“We do.”

Akaashi’s parents were pleasantly surprised when he told them he’s going on a trip abroad. They were even more surprised to hear Kuroo was going with him. They’ve heard his name at times, but that’s about it.

It was when they asked how long the trip would last that he faltered.

Akaashi has taken a week’s leave from the hospital. What if it takes longer? How long is he willing to spare, anyway?

To be completely honest, if it’s for Bokuto, he might even take an indefinite leave.

Pathetic. But a good pathetic.

His watch beeps twelve times. The crescent moon peeks from behind a cloud and Hoot’s silhouette flies past it. It reminds him of Dead Mail’s logo.

A shadow stops over their heads. A long and large shadow, like a storm cloud that appears out of the blue. As they watch, it materialises into a metallic monster.

A shiny, sleek bus stands on the road. Freshly coated in scarlet paint and tall windows that reflect the bewildered faces of Akaashi and Kuroo. A soft golden light warms the interiors.

The door slides open and Hinata steps out. The boy has added a piece of clothing to his costume: a black cape that drapes over his shoulders. It makes his orange hair glisten under the lamps.

“You weren’t kept waiting for long, I hope?” he asks.

Kuroo looks over the bus, doubtful. “Is this our mode of transport?”

Hinata pouts. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Indeed,” comes a voice from behind him. “Can you possibly afford to look down on what promises to reunite you with your loved ones?”

A tall boy with cropped, golden hair reclines in the front seat. He wears the same ruffle blouse as Hinata, but it’s a midnight blue. Instead of shorts with suspenders, he has a pair of tight-fitting trousers in white that make his legs look like long cigarettes. His head rests on the rolled-up window, his lips curved in a sly smirk. A pair of silver-rimmed glasses covers his dark eyes; at certain angles, they catch the light and make him look like an insect.

“You can at least _try_ to be polite, Tsukki,” says Hinata.

“Don’t call me that,” says the boy.

He glances at Akaashi and ignores Kuroo completely. “The name is Tsukishima,” he declares. “Tsu-ki-shi-ma. Don’t shorten it, don’t use unoriginal nicknames like Four Eyes or Megane-kun.”

Kuroo is studying the boy with a curious smile. “As you wish, Tsukki,” he says.

Hinata muffles a laugh. Tsukishima finally acknowledges the older boy with disdain.

“This is one too many,” he remarks. “Who is he and why is he speaking to me?”

“I’m speaking to you because we’re going on a trip together, Tsukki. ‘He’ is Kuroo Tetsurou. Nice to meet you.”

The smirk returns. “I’m sure it is,” says Tsukishima. “Get on the bus if you really intend to tag along.”

Their luggage is hauled into the overhead compartment. Kuroo and Akaashi take the second seat with the latter near the aisle. Hinata plops down beside Tsukishima.

The door slams shut and the engine comes to life.

The bus takes off with a jolt, speeding down the road. It changes gears as it nears the intersection point. There the streetlight flickers.

The vehicle inclines, pressing the passengers to their seats. There’s a moment where Akaashi feels his stomach drop; then they’re flying, rising higher and higher into the sky.

Down below, the security guard watches a red bus fade into a dot that floats up and vanishes. A gigantic snowy owl soars past him and follows. It emits a loud hoot as if calling out to someone.

The man sighs and goes to wash his face. Night shifts always make him woozy.

  
  
❆  
  


_Hey hey hey!_

_Well, what do you know? I somehow managed to fail at dying. I’m not surprised, not really. I couldn’t even sleep for a few minutes, how can I sleep for an eternity?_

_How are you, my love? (Can I call you ‘my love’? Please let me call you that!) I’ve been very busy. I’d be exhausted by now if I were alive, but the dead don’t tire. Can you believe it? We wish for the dying to rest in peace when they don’t actually need any rest. I find that hilarious for some reason. I don’t need any sleep now, so no kind of insomnia can hurt me. How about that? It’s like a cosmic joke._

_You’ll never believe how many people die everyday, Akaashi. It’s endless! There are over fifty different queues at the main entrance. Queue for the elderly, for the children ... For babies even! It’s heartbreaking to see them crawl up to the gates. I look at them and feel something I never before felt towards the life I had. Gratitude. Yeah, sure, it sucked I had to die, but death sucks for everyone. At least I got to live a little before that._

_And I met you!_

_(And I’ll meet you again. Because it wasn’t enough. You feel it too, right? The inadequacy of our ending?)_

_Oh, I stole a boy from the kids’ section the other day. He looked so lost standing there, I just grabbed him and ran. He says his name is Hinata. The name suits him so much, Akaashi! He has sunlight for hair!_

_He refuses to live with me without working for it, so I’m making him run errands. Mostly to deliver these letters to Dead Mail. I hope they reach you. I really, really hope they do. It’s one thing to be dead forever, another to realise death is just another life where I have to live without you until you join me. But don’t worry! I promise not to haunt you like they show in horror movies. I like to think I have more self-respect than that._

_I always wanted to become a volleyball player. Well, they have something of that sort here as well. The only difference is that it takes place in the sky. I’ll be learning how to fly so I can join a club or something._

_It still feels weird to know how light I’ve become. Sometimes I’ll be walking down the street and my body will rise a few feet in the air. It looks amazing when others do it, but I still don’t dare. I feel like I’ll fall. I don’t know why that scares me. It’s not like I can get hurt or anything._

_You’ll look good if you fly, Akaashi. I can’t wait to walk with you in a starry sky someday._

_Hinata is calling me. There’s someone at the door. I’ll write to you soon! If this reaches you, and you want to write back to me, place your letter inside this same envelope and keep it on a window sill with the logo facing up. One of the owls will bring it to me._

  
_Yours._  
_Bokuto._  


  
  


Akaashi reads the black stamp on the envelope: **UNSENT.**

He sighs and leans his head back on the seat. Each of the hundred letters bears the same stamp. A year of unsent words.

Kuroo is fast asleep beside him, snoring softly. His breaths have fogged the window. Sometimes he shivers and curls deeper into himself.

The stars beyond appear blurred, as if smudged with an eraser. The moon is visible in the distance, nothing more than a spotlight in the sky.

Hinata and Tsukishima were bickering awhile back; now the sunlight-haired boy is sleeping and drooling from his mouth. The other boy is awake, his gaze fixed on the stars outside. Hinata has unclasped his cape and it now blankets them both.

Akaashi sneaks a glance at the other passengers. Most of them wear dated clothing like his two escorts. Most of them are sleeping. All of them are dead.

Seems like not needing sleep doesn’t dissuade the dead from sleeping.

Akaashi can picture Bokuto sleeping for hours on end just because he can. No more fidgeting and jerking awake. He was right: it does feel like a cosmic joke.

Akaashi retrieves another letter. Dated a week after the first one.

  
  


_Hey, my love!_  
_(I LOVE calling you that, ahhh)_

_I was waiting to hear from you, but I guess it takes time to send letters across realms. That’s alright! I’ve been keeping myself occupied, so don’t worry about me._

_I have joined a volleyball team. They’re amazing, and they love what they do, so we became friends soon. You know how easily I make friends, heh. I’m probably the worst of the lot, since I can’t fly properly yet. It’s like a talented toddler trying to keep up with experienced adults._

_I miss your tosses, even though we only ever played once. Maybe I’m just biased._

_Are you eating well? Are you sleeping properly? You rarely say what you feel, and that worries me. Don’t miss me too much. Take care of your own health. Don’t lock yourself in a shell. Reach out. Hang out with Kuroo and Kenma._

_How’re they doing? Is Kuroo alright? Kenma knows how to take care of himself, no matter how helpless he appears, but Kuroo ... He hurts more than he lets on. He may lash out at times. Please don’t hold it against him. He’ll mostly behave himself because he cares what others think of him, but when he doesn’t, and the wall crumbles, please be there for him. I know I’m asking a lot when you have your own self to look after, but who else do I ask?_

_That reminds me. I’m sending you a box of Pocky I stole. Don’t judge me for stealing. There’s no money here, so anything we want has to be stolen. One of my friends in the volleyball team, Nekomata-sensei, said that even the time we spend has to be stolen. I don’t understand what he means by that. Maybe I’m too dumb._

_Sending you these reminds me of how much I miss rolling around in your blanket. It smells like home to me, did you know that? You said it’s mine, didn’t you? Or maybe you only thought that. Either way, if you don’t mind, may I please have it? I’ll use it as a shawl! You can keep it folded on your window sill with the envelope placed over it. One of the owls will surely bring it to me._

_You can keep the scarf for now. I may miss it someday, then I’ll ask for it too._

_If you get this, take a long hug from me. Don’t let nightmares steal your sleep._

_(We never kissed, did we? What was I doing with my time?)_

  
_Yours._  
_Bokuto._  


  
  


**UNSENT,** glares the stamp.

The box of Pocky had to be thrown away. They had moulded.

Kuroo shifts in his sleep and leans against Akaashi. The latter moves his arm to make him comfortable. He’d have liked nothing better than to shake the boy awake and show him the letter. To show Bokuto would never forget anyone in his life, regardless of how many people populate it.

But Akaashi takes one look at the faint dark circles under Kuroo’s eyes and decides against it. He’s not the only one whom sleep deserted.

The bus swerves dangerously and rises higher. Kuroo slams against him and jolts awake, muttering profanities. Through the window, a wispy outline of an aeroplane is visible.

Kuroo scowls at it. “If I die on my way to meet the dead, tell Kenma I love him,” he says to Akaashi.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Tsukishima says from the front seat. “Akaashi-san will be dead, too.”

Kuroo aims a foot under the boy’s seat, prepared to kick it. Akaashi slaps it away.

“In fact,” Tsukishima continues. “Maybe your beloved friend should’ve considered the consequences before dragging you to meet him in the realm of the dead. We’re already dead, but you … you can still die in all sorts of ways.”

The boy sounds disturbingly happy at that prospect. Before Akaashi can respond, Kuroo rises a little and bends over the front seat.

“What’s your problem, Tsukki?” he asks, a hint of laughter in his voice. “Are you like this with everyone or just us? Why do you hate us? Is it because of something we did? Or maybe it’s deeper … Are you jealous of us? It’s not our fault nobody ever wanted to come meet you, you know.”

Akaashi pulls him back by the collar. Kuroo falls onto his seat with a thud. He glares at the boy and mouths: _Stop provoking him._

Tsukishima doesn’t respond for a long time. Akaashi can’t tell what he’s thinking; he’s turned away from them.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. “I wouldn’t want anyone to come meet me,” Tsukishima says. “It would be selfish of me to haunt someone like that after I’ve left. Why should I linger? Why would you want to meet for a moment only to be separated for a lifetime? Wouldn’t that only hurt more? You can’t just hop on this bus and meet him anytime you want. You are still living and he … he’s not.”

Tsukishima glances over his shoulder. Through the gap in the seats, he catches Kuroo’s eyes.

“I don’t hate you. I’m not jealous of you, either. I pity you. You’re so hungry for closure, it’s pitiful.” He smiles. “It’s lame.”

He turns away before either Kuroo or Akaashi can reply. His posture—nearly buried in the window, half under the cape, half out of it—shows he’s not interested in what they have to say. They can’t change his mind. He’ll always find it lame to hold on so strongly to something.

Akaashi glances at Kuroo for help, but the older boy is lost in his thoughts. He’s staring at the front seat with an unreadable expression on his face. Akaashi has seen that look before. It’s the one he wore when he first read the letters from Bokuto. One of intense concentration as if trying to figure out a puzzle.

He remembers what Kuroo said about first meetings and fencing. This must be what he was talking of. You may not get along if your swords clash too often. But what do you do if a person retreats once you get too close? How do you fence with someone who’s willing to attack but surrenders every time he’s attacked?

Akaashi can almost hear these questions racing in Kuroo’s mind.

The bus slows, then dives. Akaashi grabs onto Kuroo who grabs onto the front seat. Some of the passengers begin to float at the turbulence. Hinata almost hits his head against the roof before Tsukishima yanks him back.

The little boy wakes up and stares around groggily. “What happened?”

“You turned into a balloon,” says Tsukishima. “Keep your seatbelt on.”

He obeys, fumbling with the straps.

“Uh, why are we flying so low?” Akaashi asks. “Won’t anyone notice?”

Hinata stretches and cracks his knuckles. “People rarely look up, it’s not a problem. And even if they do, all they’ll see is a light floating in the sky. They’ll think it’s a flying lantern.”

“Some of the faster buses are regularly mistaken for shooting stars,” Tsukishima adds, helpfully.

Kuroo looks out the window. “How many buses are there?”

Hinata shrugs. “Who knows? So many die everyday. There must be thousands flying around.”

Akaashi somehow doubts that. A single bus may go unnoticed, but that amount of aerial traffic would attract attention.

“Do they all go to Corsica?” he asks.

“Not at all. There are portals to the other side everywhere. The one in Corsica is the easiest route. Bokuto-sama said we’re lucky.”

_Lucky._

Akaashi closes his eyes. It’s strange how he no longer believes in that word. He has seen too much in too little time to keep thinking of the universe in terms of ‘luck,’ ‘chances,’ and ‘coincidences.’ The old Akaashi, the one who still hadn’t met Bokuto, would be stunned. He would probably call him ‘lame.’

But a thought once born is not so easy to destroy.

And the thought is simple.

_Maybe it’s fate._

  
  
❆  
  


_My love._

 __

 _I’m starting to think you’re upset with me. Either that, or you’re not getting these letters. I don’t know which possibility makes me feel more helpless._

__

_Everyday I go to Dead Mail’s office to make sure I don’t miss out if you ever write to me. Everyday I return empty-handed. I’m trying to stay hopeful even though I’m not very good at it. I couldn’t control my moods when we played volleyball matches in high school. A single wrong serve could get me down; a string of them could send me crawling under a table. That’s what I feel like now. That these letters are nothing more than a string of wrong serves._

__

_I play volleyball at night. Sometimes we play till dawn. Sunrises look different when you’re flying. I’d grown to hate sunrises when I was alive, did you know that? They were a reminder that I’ll never have the luxury of sleeping through one._

__

_I’m starting to like them again. They’re beautiful. They remind me of you._

__

_Hinata has been busy trying to get through to the headquarters of Dead Mail. He came up with the idea that we should personally check if our packages are being sent or they’re just collecting dust in a corner. But it’s not easy entering them. The place is heavily guarded by beings who’ve been dead much longer than me. I feel like I’m playing a match against a much stronger opponent._

__

_It doesn’t scare me. I’m excited to see who persists. I think I will. I have a stronger motivation._

__

_I’ve started to use you as my journal, ha! Sorry about that. I just really like talking to you, I guess._

__

_Or, rather, I just really like to think you’re somewhere out there reading my words._

__

_Please write to me at least once. Even if it’s to tell me you don’t want to hear from me again. If I don’t hear from you soon, I’ll assume Dead Mail is at fault._

  
_Yours always._  
_Bokuto._  


  
  
❆  
  


The bus swerves smoothly around a tall structure. Hinata leans over Tsukishima to look out the window. 

“Is that Tokyo Tower?” he gushes. 

“Ha?!” Tsukishima glowers at him. “It’s just an ordinary transmission tower.” 

Kuroo snorts in his sleep. 

  
  
❆  
  


__

_Dearest Akaashi._

__

_(I stole an anthology of love letters of famous dead people and the most romantic ones were addressed like this_ :D) 

__

_Talking to Nekomata-sensei the other day, I came to know something that might help you. I don’t know if it’s scientific or just something the old man came up with while smoking. He says it’s something he told his friend, Ukai-sensei, before dying._

__

_He called it the Six Pillars of Life._  
_(It sounds grander than it actually is.)_

 __

 _There are six fundamental things we must never let go of, he said, even when the universe tries to force us to let go._

__

_The first and most important pillar of all: Laughter._

__

_It sounds like a cliché (it IS a cliché), but it’s true. Nothing heals faster than genuine laughter._

__

_He said that too many of us consider humour to be shameful, to make light of grave things. It’s … not, really. Humour is a weapon. Once we can laugh at our own suffering (this is difficult), we’ll be better off than we were yesterday._

__

_He told me to tell you to cry all you want, but don’t forget to find something to laugh about. “Tell him to laugh at his own misery,” he said. “To laugh at how you could’ve spent a lifetime with each other, but trust in your lousy luck to be separated so young.”_

__

_He said I should’ve laughed at my own condition too while I was alive. “You told me sleeping didn’t come as easily as it used to. And I—I couldn’t stop sleeping during my last days! Isn’t that funny? You wanted to sleep but you couldn’t; I wanted to stay awake but I couldn’t. You’re my opposite, in a sense. I’d lived so long, that I grew tired of life and faded out. You … Maybe you were so eager to live that you didn’t want to miss a single moment of life.”_

__

_I told him that’s bullshit. He agreed it was absolute bullshit. It was only a human being’s absurd way of laughing at the cold, iron truth: I was going to die and nothing could change that. No miracle drug, no fairy godmothers. Death is death and there’s not much we can do about it. But what comes after is in our hands._

__

_That’s where the next three pillars enter:_  
_Music. Art. Books._

 __

 _When you get lonely, lean on them. Depend on them. “That is why art exists,” Nekomata-sensei said. “To be your friend.”_

__

_The old man sounds too wise to have been a lifelong volleyball coach._

__

_Or maybe all of this ‘wisdom’ is bullshit too and I’m just too dumb to not see it._

__

_What do you think, Akaashi? Do you think this will help you? I don’t claim to know how you feel. But I never, ever want to see you hurt. So if you are hurting, I’d like to help, and … well, this is me trying to help._

__

_The last two pillars are Time and Stars. Something to do with ‘time heals all wounds,’ I guess._

__

_As for stars … honestly, I don’t know what the fuck he means by that._  
_(I just really wanted to curse, sorry_ ^-^)

 _So here you go. The six pillars of life. Faux philosophy for real situations. If they don’t help, let me know. I’ll tell Nekomata-sensei he should stick to coaching aspiring volleyball ghosts._

  
_Your own Bokuto._  


_P.S. I spend every day of my afterlife regretting not spending every day of my life kissing you._

  
  


Akaashi feels his face warm. Bokuto is too honest. Maybe that’s what death does to you. 

And then there’s Tsukishima. 

Akaashi stops trying to figure out how death works and opens the last letter he’ll be reading before getting some sleep. 

The bus drives out of the clouds. For a moment, Akaashi catches a clear view of moonlight shattered on dark waters below. They’ve long since left Japan behind. Now the sea—or even an ocean—stretches in front. 

_Is this real?_

To his surprise, he finds the answer doesn’t matter as much as he thought it would. 

The letter is short. It takes Akaashi only a few seconds to read.  
  


_Hey, hey, hey!_

_I’m very happy today. Can you tell?_ :D 

_Ask me why._

_(“Why?” Akaashi asks.)_

_Aw, thanks for asking!_ ^-^ 

_I’ve discovered the special delivery system of Dead Mail._

_They’ll send you letters right that instant, Akaashi! Can you believe it?_

_I spent so long writing these, when there’s an instant service in place. All I have to do is speak into the ears of an owl working under Dead Mail. You’ll be sent a blank page and my words will be transcribed as I speak._

_That’s what I’ll do. I’m going to set a date and time for it._

_I’m already looking forward to it, Akaashi! This is so exciting! It’s almost like a phone call, ahhh._

  
_Yours forever and ever and ever._  
_Bokuto._  


_P.S. Hugs and kisses, hugs and kisses._  
  


Akaashi reads the words several times. The memory of the second letter, its arrival and his eventual disbelief, crashes to the forefront of his mind. 

_He was there. Bokuto was standing on the other side._

They were so close. 

Akaashi clutches the paper, crumpling the edges. He imagines Bokuto with an enormous snowy owl perched on his arm. It lends him its ear to hear the words that Akaashi is about to read. 

The push and pull of fate leaves him breathless. 

They’ve been circling each other like twin stars. For how long? Only for the past year? Or have the gears been in motion even before they met? 

All of a sudden, Akaashi has an epiphany. A feeling he can’t shake off. 

_The story is greater than the two of us._

“You okay?” 

Akaashi starts at the voice. Kuroo is staring at him with eyes brimming with sleep. Dazed but concerned. 

Akaashi laughs softly and shakes his head. “I’m not,” he says. “I’m not okay at all. Bokuto … We would pretend he’d be okay. We would pretend he would live. I would squeeze his hand as if to say, _Here. I’m right here._ But we didn’t believe it, did we? We knew it wasn’t true. But we found it easier to believe in that lie than to accept the truth of what was to come.” 

He laughs again, louder. Hinata shifts in the front seat. 

“I thought I was believing in a lie and hiding from the truth!” Akaashi turns to Kuroo, desperate to make him see the fundamental flaw in this. “I thought that was the end, Kuroo. That death is the greatest truth there is.” 

He brushes a loose strand from his face and his palm returns wet with tears. 

“How arrogant of me,” says Akaashi. “How arrogant to think I know the ending to a story still being written.” 

Kuroo is watching him, fully alert now. He can feel Tsukishima and Hinata listening. 

And Akaashi doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all for the eyes and the ears around him. 

He wants to be more like Bokuto who can say without inhibition that he wants to kiss him. That he loves him. 

Because Akaashi wants all of that and more. 

He has been wanting for a while. 

  
  
❆  
  


Close to dawn, the bus dives and doesn’t stop until it hits land. 

The boys lose their balance, and their heads slam against each other. 

“Ow!” 

They rise to their feet, rubbing their temples. The luggages are unloaded, the passengers follow behind. 

Kuroo exits first and whistles. 

“Beauty,” he says. 

Akaashi finds sand under his shoes. 

He looks up at where they’ve landed and feels his breath catch. 

The morning sun. An empty coast. The endless sea. 

It can be anywhere in the world. 

But Akaashi knows he’s standing in Corsica. 

  
  
  
**●**  
  
  


# BENEATH THE CORSICAN STARS

  


  
  
  


THEY DECIDE TO SPEND the day at the beach.

Hinata clasps their luggages and vanishes into thin air before either of them can dispute. 

Akaashi and Kuroo stand and blink at each other. 

Tsukishima yawns. 

“Looks like I’m stuck with you,” he says. 

“You’re not actually sleepy, are you?” Kuroo asks. 

“I yawn when I’m bored.” 

Akaashi expects Kuroo to retort, but instead he laughs it off. 

“I think I offended you last night,” he says, surprisingly sincere. “I apologise.” 

He goes to bow, but Tsukishima has already turned away. 

“You didn’t offend me,” he says, walking with brisk steps. “It takes more than a few words of a stranger to offend me.” 

He glances at the boys still standing near the bus. 

“Keep up. There’s a cave in the eastern cliffs where we can spend the day. You’ll get to meet your friend at night.” 

They follow the golden-haired boy as the bus drives off. It rides the stretch of the coast before rising to the sky and disappearing in sunlight. 

The waves lap against their shoes. Akaashi tries to move away, but Kuroo keeps him in place. 

“It’s just water,” he says. 

Akaashi sighs. He takes the gloved hand in his and sways them to and fro. 

They walk down the beach as the sun climbs up the sky. Tsukishima walks with his hands in pockets a few feet ahead. A fishing boat is floating in the distance. Seagulls fight for fish at the boulders. 

“Oy, Tsukki!” Kuroo calls. “If I ever want to go abroad again, can you give me a free ride?” 

“No,” comes the reply. 

“Please? Kenma loves quiet beaches. Less than his bedroom, yeah, but I’m sure he’d love this.” 

“I’m not your chauffeur. Or butler.” 

“Why do you walk so fast?” Kuroo runs up to the boy, dragging Akaashi along with him. “See? Now we look like three friends on a trip.” 

Tsukishima narrows his eyes, shifting away from the two. “We’re not friends. You don’t even know my full name.” 

“And you don’t know mine. What’s that got to do with anything?” 

Tsukishima comes to a stop. “If you’re being serious,” he says, “then there’s something I’d like to ask you. May I?” 

Akaashi studies the boy. The silver glasses have slipped down his nose a little. Hair like honey. He’s pale. His skin glows under sunlight. 

_Like the moon._

Beautiful and distant. 

Maybe the ones who want to be alone should be left alone. 

Kuroo tilts his head like a curious dog. “Sure,” he says. 

Tsukishima keeps his gaze on the foam sparkling near his feet. 

“I cannot understand how everyone can love so easily even though they’re aware someone will end up hurting the other. Either through words, actions, or death.” He shakes his head. “It’s just another emotion fuelled by chemicals in your brain.” 

Akaashi doesn’t reply. He doesn’t think he has an answer for Tsukishima. How do you convince someone that love is a fundamental force not unlike gravity? That it’s as mysterious as quantum entanglement? Even Bokuto’s six pillars of life can only ever hint at its vastness. There’s no substitute for reality. It’s like trying to describe colours. 

_Maybe the ones who want to be alone should be left alone._

Akaashi watches as Kuroo lets go of his hand and walks up to Tsukishima. He looks into the guarded eyes. 

“Do you need your glasses?” he asks. “Or is it a habit from back when you were alive?” 

Tsukishima looks away. 

With careful hands Kuroo slides down the silver rim and wears it himself. 

“As I thought,” he says, smiling. “Why keep something when you no longer need it? I’m genuinely curious. You want to know how we love so easily, I want to know how you hold on to something you don’t need anymore.” 

Tsukishima blinks at him. His face looks naked without the glasses. 

“I didn’t have a particular reason,” he confesses. 

“Exactly.” Kuroo gestures at Akaashi. “He didn’t have a particular reason either for wanting to be around Bokuto when he was alive. In fact, there were far more reasons to _not_ want to be with him. He was dying. Loving a dying person is dangerous. 

“Yet, they loved each other and still do. No particular reason. They can probably count off the things they like about each other. I can list the traits I like in Kenma. But that’s not really it, is it? You wouldn’t cross realms because you miss certain characteristics in a person. 

“Maybe love is the name we give to all the unreasonable ways we try to stay together. Kind of like dark matter, and how it keeps the entire universe from falling apart. 

“But that’s only a living being’s perspective. If you want to know from someone dead, stay with us and meet Bokuto tonight.” Kuroo shrugs. “Even if this answers your question, you could meet him tonight. Stay with us either way. No particular reason.” 

Akaashi smiles. “Are you okay with that?” he asks. 

In response, Tsukishima holds out his hand. “Glasses.” 

A little of the light dies in Kuroo’s eyes. He hesitates for an instant before returning them. 

Tsukishima wears them and begins to walk away. “You didn’t clear my doubts at all,” he tells Kuroo. “Only left me more confused. And as for meeting your friend, I don’t have a choice in that matter. I’m here to watch over you, I’d be meeting him eventually, anyway. 

“That being said—” Tsukishima smirks. “I look forward to meeting Bokuto-san. If only to see what kind of fool would make you his best friend.” 

Kuroo bursts out laughing. Akaashi looks at him, surprised. 

Then he joins in. 

It has been a while since laughter wasn’t followed by tears. 

  
  
❆  
  
  


They reach the sea cave and look in. Standing for thousands of years, once regularly flooded with the ebb and flow of tides, it’s now no more than a hole punched in the cliffs arching over the sea. Cool, dry rocks line the walls, roof, and floor. Tiny crabs skitter away when they hear footsteps approach. 

The three boys lounge around in the shade, listening to the sea whispering outside. Kuroo goes for a swim while Tsukishima leaves to bring them food. Akaashi stretches out on the cold, hard ground and takes out the letters. 

  
  
❆  
  


  
__

_Akaashi, my world._

_I WILL PLUCK THE FEATHERS OF THOSE INFERNAL OWLS, I SWEAR I WILL._

_How do they punish the dead? Is there a prison? Or is it just assumed the dead won’t break laws? Because, my my, do I have news for them._

_Millions of letters, Akaashi. Millions of them! Sitting on the tables, stacked in the drawers. Millions of dead trying to reach out to the living. All of them unsent._

_At one point, I had to admit this couldn’t be mere laziness._

_Nekomata-sensei has a theory. He says it’s to maintain balance. Instead of trying to conceal that the dead and the living can reach out to one another, they give us a semblance of hope. “You may write to your heart’s content, but they will never reach the other side.” How long do you think a person will keep writing once they realise they’ll never hear back?_

_It was Hinata who convinced me I must keep writing. And he would keep looking for a way to confirm you get them._

_Now that I have all but ruined the Headquarters of Dead Mail, things have been a bit chaotic here. There are no prisons, thankfully, but there are some nasty beings who try to snap my neck now and then. I won’t die, but it’s rather uncomfortable looking for a head without a head._

_I have gathered all my letters (a little less than a hundred of them) and threatened the Owl Dean to give me an owl of my own. So we can talk to each other any time we want, Akaashi. I want to talk to you whenever I want, dammit._

_Hinata has been given leave to be in charge of parcels. For his first job, he’ll be taking along these letters and the box of Pocky for you. (See if they’re still edible, or else feed them to the ants.) In return, he’s going to get me that damned scarf. He’ll also be bringing a kitten Nekomata-sensei found abandoned on the streets. I don’t know what Hinata plans to do with it. Maybe find someone who doesn’t abandon it again._

_Hinata has been spending a lot of time looking into a mirror nowadays. At first I thought he was unnerved by how he’d stopped aging. (You’ll be surprised how many freak out over the thought of remaining unchanged forever.) But the mirror seems to be broken. It doesn’t reflect anything. Maybe it has sentimental value._

_Either way, I’m highly excited and filled with determination! We WILL meet, Akaashi. At least once. Even if you don’t want to. Only once. That’s all I ask._

_(And why wouldn’t you want to meet me? What’s not to like?_ :p) 

  
_Yours._  
_Bokuto._  


_P.S. I just got the news that we could meet each other only under the condition that an unbiased third party stays present to keep an eye on our meeting. They’ll escort you to the destination and back along with Hinata, and in no way am I supposed to meet them beforehand._

_I can accept the condition. I no longer care for the eyes around me._

_P. P. S. I love the owl they sent me, Akaashi! It looks just like me!_ ^0^  
  


As if on cue, a giant pair of wings flaps into the cave. 

Akaashi sits up and stretches a hand. 

Hoot makes a soft, fragile sound and nuzzles its head against his palm. Dust specks its feathers. In the rays of sun they shine and sparkle like glitter. 

Akaashi scratches its head. “Thank you,” he whispers, not sure whom he’s thanking. 

  
  
❆  
  


Hinata teleports from wherever he was and lands right on Akaashi. 

“Careful!” 

Hinata moves away with a laugh. “I’m still not good at it. When I left, I landed right on the edge of the gates and almost fell back to earth.” 

Akaashi rests his head on the knees. “What’s it like? There?” 

“Our realm?” Hinata beams, as if he’s always wanted to be asked this question. “Well, it’s much like this, except you’re weightless. Give your hand.” 

Akaashi obeys. 

Hinata takes it in his grip and squeezes it. “See how you can feel me? That’s because I’m real here. There, not so much. That’s why Bokuto-sama comes down to earth with his friends to play volleyball. You can’t have much fun there.” He sighs. “This is fun. Being real is fun.” 

“Can he come down to my house?” Akaashi blurts out. “I mean, if he can come down here, he can come to Tokyo, right?” 

Hinata furrows his brows. “He sure can, but—” 

He shuts up abruptly, his face pink. 

“What is it?” Akaashi asks. 

Hinata shakes his head. “I can’t speak for Bokuto-sama.” 

“Tell me what’s on your mind.” 

Hinata looks at Akaashi. “It’s just that … Once you die and realise death is less about ceasing to exist and more about starting a new life, you don’t really think too much of what came before. The past becomes another life for you. Most people think like Tsukishima. They don’t want to keep lingering in a realm where they have no place anymore.” 

Akaashi remembers what Bokuto wrote in one of his letters. _I promise not to haunt you. I like to think I have more self-respect than that._ Maybe it’s in our nature to let go as much as it is to hold on. 

Kuroo crawls into the cave, dripping water everywhere. He chides Hinata for disappearing with his suitcase; now he has to wear drenched boxers for the rest of the day. 

Their bickering is halted at Tsukishima’s entrance who has stolen an entire portable barbecue along with packs of sausages and meat. He shakes his pockets, and the ingredients fall to the floor. 

Kuroo and Hinata clamp the boy in a bear hug with a thrilled “Tsukki!” 

Tsukishima scowls. “Tch.” 

They walk down to the beach together. Akaashi and Tsukishima stay back to grill while Hinata and Kuroo race each other along the shore. The little boy wins. 

At noon, they sit around in a circle and have a delicious lunch. Two of the four don’t need to eat, but they savour it all the same. No particular reason. 

Kuroo shares his food with all of them. It’s an old habit. Growing up with Bokuto ensured he could never eat by himself. 

When the watch beeps four times, the sun turns towards the horizon. 

Kuroo is stretched out on the sand. He gazes at the darkening sky with distant eyes. Tsukishima sits beside him staring at the retreating sea. Hinata is chasing crabs but has yet to succeed in catching one. 

Akaashi watches them all and feels warm inside. It sends a shock through him. 

He thought he’s become incapable of feeling anything besides pain. 

He looks at the horizon as the sun touches it. The fishing boat returns to shore. 

_What else have I assumed to be true?_

Akaashi closes his eyes and feels the breeze on his face. Hinata was right. This is fun. Being alive is fun. 

The sound of a bonfire reaches his ears. Crackles borne by wind. Akaashi follows with his gaze. 

Far in the opposite end of the shore, a fire burns merrily near the waves. He can just make out the silhouettes of people sitting around it. 

The old Akaashi would stay put. But the fire looks so welcoming. And he’s been cold for so long. 

He walks towards it with dazed steps. Halfway there, he feels Kuroo walking beside him. 

“Don’t just disappear like that,” he scolds. 

“I won’t.” 

Three boys sit around the fire with their own barbecue and steak. All of them in light sleeveless shirts and shorts. One has a guitar with him, his hair tied in a bun. He smiles at them curiously when he sees them approach. 

The grey-haired one beckons them to sit closer to the fire. He introduces himself as Suga, the guitar player as Asahi, and the brown-haired boy as Daichi. 

Kuroo immediately slides into his charming socialite mode. Smiling and trading questions. Smart and confident answers. The mask fits him so well, Akaashi can’t help but think of it as a skill. A skill he sorely lacks. 

A week ago, his listlessness could’ve brought down the mood of the entire island. Then imagine his surprise when, little by little, Akaashi finds himself joining in the conversations. Adding a nod here, a reply there. He laughs once or twice; each time Kuroo catches his eyes and smiles. 

The three were in the same high school and decided to reunite for a backpack trip across Europe. They used to play volleyball, though have since moved on to different professions. 

“I’m going on another trip soon after this,” Asahi says, shyly. “With another old friend.” 

Suga swishes a finger through the fire. “Nishinoya, right? What’s he doing nowadays?” 

“Fishing in Italy.” 

Daichi sighs. “I envy him.” 

Asahi laughs. “You’re travelling too, you know.” 

When they ask Akaashi what brought him to Corsica, he speaks of Bokuto for the first time without tearing up. 

“Seems like all the old friends are catching up,” Suga says, brightly. “Your friend can join us when he arrives.” 

A resounding splash interrupts their conversation. They start a little and gaze in unison at the sea. 

A ball of orange bobs in the last rays of sun. As they watch, it straightens into a human figure and comes running at them. 

Hinata stops when he reaches the group of boys sitting around the fire. He bends over to catch a breath he doesn’t need. Soaked orange strands drip water in the sand. 

A blue and yellow volleyball rests in the nook of his arm. 

“Up for a match?” he asks. His eyes gleam with more life than most living beings. 

Before any of them can respond, a shrill voice pierces the dusk. 

“Give the ball back here, shrimpy!” 

The boys back away and form a huddle. 

An ancient man with spindly white hair appears in the distance. He walks with a lurch in his steps, dressed in a monochrome striped suit. Elegant and sharp, eyes watchful like a cat. 

“Stealing from your own kind, boy?” The man shakes his head. “Disgraceful.” 

To their surprise, Hinata rushes forth and hugs him around the waist. “Nekomata-sensei!” He looks up. “Where’s Bokuto-sama?” 

“He’ll be here soon,” the man says. Akaashi’s heart skips a beat. “Why don’t you younglings start your match?” 

It’s been so long since Akaashi has played in an actual volleyball match. Tossing to Bokuto in the gym last year hardly counts. He was too self-conscious of saying or doing anything that might come across as insensitive. 

But Bokuto was the one to teach him to stop caring about appearances. 

Akaashi sets for Hinata and Suga sets for Asahi. 

Every time a team scores, their shouts echo in the night. 

Nekomata-sensei sits on a boulder and watches the game with shrewd eyes. 

At some point, Tsukishima comes to stand behind him. He maintains his distance, but the interest on his face is palpable no matter how hard he tries to hide it. 

When Hinata slams the ball too hard, it flies past their heads and rolls away into the shadows. 

Akaashi apologises for the poor set, and runs after it. 

The fire and laughter fade behind him. He bends to look for the telltale dark spot on the sand. 

Instead, a pair of white shoes enters his vision. 

Akaashi looks up. 

A half moon hangs in the sky. And a full moon stands in front. 

White. From the shoes to the suit to his brows. Hair frosted at the tips. Still pale, but without the dark circles he wears in Akaashi’s memories. 

The only colour on him is the dash of burgundy around his neck. 

_Bokuto._

He waits. The watch ticks the time. Five seconds, then ten. 

_Bokuto._

A whimper breaks free and is immediately drowned by the roaring waves. Another cry muffled by his arm. Akaashi tastes the fleece of his cardigan. He wipes at his eyes frantically as the tears pour, wrenching away something as they leave. 

Bokuto kneels and takes him in his arms. 

Akaashi buries himself into the boy. Clinging. Seizing. Refusing to let go. 

Bokuto still smells like home. A different home, but home still. 

“I promised I’ll see you soon, didn’t I?” he whispers. 

Akaashi laughs through his tears. 

“I’m a man of my word. And there are more promises to keep.” 

Bokuto leans back and takes the tearful, snotty face in his palms. 

Akaashi shakes his head. 

“I can’t stop crying,” he says. 

“You don’t have to.” 

It’s strange to kiss someone no longer here. Bokuto tastes like summer breeze and winter winds at the same time. Akaashi opens his mouth wider ... Now he can taste the farthest stars. It feels like a dream. The past year feels like a dream. Meeting Bokuto feels like a dream. 

And Akaashi never wants to wake up. 

The owl hoots above them. Bokuto pulls him closer. 

_—“Koutarou.”_

 _—“You’re beautiful.”_

  
  
❆  
  


When they return to the bonfire, Kuroo barrels into Bokuto like a raging bull. 

Turns out he is a man of his word, too. 

“You’ll kill me!” Bokuto gasps, pawing at his neck. 

Kuroo guffaws and twists the scarf tighter. “You’ll _pay.”_

Bokuto stills, his eyes round and tragic. “Haven’t I already paid with my li—?” 

_“Don’t_ you fucking dare!” 

The two boys tumble over the beach like puppies. Puppies tearing at each other’s throats. 

Akaashi and Hinata rush to break the fight. Asahi and Suga look helpless. 

Daichi only appears puzzled. 

“Didn’t he say this was a friend?” 

If you listen closely, you may hear Nekomata-sensei and Tsukishima cackling. 

Bokuto sits and pants as Kuroo struggles to his feet. He grasps a bunch of his white hair and shakes it. 

“Quit the act,” he says. “You don’t need to breathe. I won’t feel sorry for you anymore.” 

Bokuto escapes from the attacking hands and rises. When he looks at Kuroo, his yellow eyes are burning. 

“And I thank you for that,” he says. 

Kuroo freezes. 

_I thank you for not feeling sorry for me._

He stares at the boy who has been his best friend through life and afterlife. A sob escapes him and he looks away. 

Bokuto takes him in a hug. They stay that way for a long time. Kuroo’s shoulders heave, then calm. Through it all, Bokuto rubs his back as if massaging an invisible ache. Making sure Atlas can keep carrying the planet. 

Nekomata-sensei claps and asks the players to continue the game. Bokuto shares a high-five with Hinata before getting into position. 

Tsukishima joins the other team of his own accord. 

Kuroo raises a brow. 

The boy answers his unspoken question: “No particular reason.” 

And their shouts fill the night once more. 

  
  
❆  
  


“Oy, Bokuto. Tsukki had something he wanted to ask you.” 

“Who’s Tsukki?” 

“I’m Tsukki. That is, I’m _not_ Tsukki. I’m Tsukishima. Please call me Tsukishima.” 

“No, ‘Tsukki’ suits you! What did you want to ask, Tsukki?” 

“Do I have to repeat it word-for-word, Kuroo-san?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, well. How does everyone love so easily with the threat of pain and suffering and death looming over their heads? Why risk so much for what is just chemicals in the brain?” 

_“Chemicals in the Brain_ … That would make a good band name.” 

“There’s already a very popular group with chemicals in their name.” 

“Touché. Say, Tsukki. Have you ever been in love?” 

“No, not really.” 

“Maybe that’s because you suck at admitting it.” 

“ … ” 

“I hated my life from the moment I knew I was ill, from the moment I knew what that meant, but it was nothing compared to what I felt once I met Akaashi. If there was only hatred before, now there was desperation. And a baseless, pointless hope. _Maybe I’ll live. Maybe there’ll be a miracle._ When I slowly lost the abilities that made me who I am, I began to think of ending my life before it could end on me. It made me feel powerful to think there was still something in my hands. In my control. And then I met him. What a strange time to meet. Right when I thought the curtain was about to fall. 

“Loving someone with all you’ve got, being loved by someone with all they’ve got, is everything. No matter how long you get to be with them. I don’t really understand why you call it “just chemicals in the brain,” but once you find what you love, that’s the moment you’ll be ready to cross the stars for them.” 

“... I see.” 

“Does that answer your question, Tsukki?” 

“Hm.” 

“Great! Now share the steak.” 

“Ha?!” 

“Don’t be shy. Come along, come along.” 

“Wait—” 

  
  
❆  
  


“I had hallucinations when I was alive,” Bokuto says. “And in one of them, I saw you lying dead in the snow out in your backyard. I was terrified.” 

Akaashi plays with the white locks where they curl near his ears. “Then what happened?” 

“Nothing. I went back into the house. I knew that wasn’t how you’d die.” 

“That’s … delightful, I guess. So how do I die in your head?” 

“You don’t.” 

Akaashi waits for him to elaborate, but Bokuto has busied himself with the sand. 

He sways his palms and the golden grains rise around them and freeze. Crystals frozen in time, shining like diamonds. 

_“For dust thou art.”_

His hands drop. The grains fall back to earth. 

_“And unto dust shalt thou return.”_

He bends over and retrieves something from the sand. Something shining. Something precious. 

“I realised that day visions are everywhere.” 

He takes Akaashi’s hand and slides off the glove. He kisses his fingers, then puts on the ring. 

“Whether or not they are real is up to us.” 

A diamond ring. Where did he steal it from? 

“I didn’t know you’ve read the Bible,” Akaashi says. 

Bokuto blinks. “That quote is from the Bible?” 

Akaashi shakes his head, resigned. 

Bokuto laughs, nudging his shoulder. “A heads-up. That ring will disappear as soon as you return to your life.” 

Akaashi kisses him. 

“It won’t.” 

  
  
❆  
  


“Keep in touch after we leave, Tsukki.” 

Kuroo chomps on a piece of meat. Tsukishima sits staring into the last embers of the bonfire. Suga and Daichi sit farther away, carrying on an enthusiastic conversation. Asahi picks at the guitar at random, sometimes checking his phone for messages. 

Nekomata-sensei is nowhere to be seen. 

“Why don’t you keep it burning instead of watching it die?” Kuroo grabs a stick and pokes at the logs. The fire rises with a crackle and roar. “Lazy bones.” 

Tsukishima watches him save it. “How long will you keep it burning?” 

Kuroo shrugs. “As long as I’m here.” 

Tsukishima leans back until he drops on the sand. A light cloud of gold puffs around him. 

“So much effort.” He sighs. “Why?” 

Kuroo chortles. “No particular reason. Here.” 

Tsukishima opens his mouth. Kuroo aims the last piece of meat and shoots it with perfect aim. The boy munches on it with a satisfied nod. 

“I’ll consider,” he says. 

Kuroo looks at him, surprised. 

Tsukishima’s fingers dance in strange, hypnotic steps; the flames follow his movements. The fire rises higher and higher until you can no longer tell where the sparks end and the stars begin. 

“Is that a yes?” Kuroo asks. 

“That’s a maybe.” 

  
  
❆  
  


Hinata sits on a boulder, separated from the rest. 

With their laughter in his ears, he takes out the mirror and looks into it. 

Black. Opaque. 

Until it’s not. 

He tilts the mirror to face the night sky. Stars blink between his palms. 

They shiver and swirl, then dissolve. 

When the reflection appears, he peers close into the glass. 

The laughter is replaced by cheers. Applause fills his ears. They echo as in a stadium, thunderous and clear. Pumped with adrenaline, filled with life. 

It is enough to make a dead heart race. 

He sees himself walk onto the court. Covered in black and orange, eyes without fear. 

Hinata smiles. 

In another life, a better story awaits him. And that is enough.

  
  
  
**●**  
  
  


# AFTERLIFE

  


  
  
  


“DAD? YEAH, IT’S ME. We have an entire collection of vinyls stowed away in the attic, don’t we? Yeah, I’ll be bringing some of them here. I’d like to listen to music.”

The next day Akaashi comes home with a carton in his arms. He puts it on the bed and thumbs through the collection. 

It turns out his old man has great taste. 

“We’re rich, Box.” 

His phone vibrates with a message. 

_I’m training my friend Tanaka’s parrot._

Followed by a video of Suga humming the opening chords of a horror classic, and a parrot perched on his shoulder singing along. 

Akaashi laughs and sends him a thumbs up. _Keep me updated._

He picks one of the vinyls. Classical. _The London Violin Sound_ by the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Released in the same year he was born. Akaashi wonders if he grew up listening to this. 

The record scratches to life. He sits on the bed and stares at the bare, blue wall. 

The painting stares back at him. _A Seascape, Shipping by Moonlight._

Akaashi waits for something to happen. To feel something. 

The clock ticks. Five seconds, then ten. 

The musical pieces change. The first one bleeds into the second, then third. 

When _Summertime_ starts playing, the colours begin to swirl. 

The lone watchtower in the painting winks. Its golden shivers and slips out. 

The colours trickle out of the boundaries to cover the walls. An entire room filled with seawater. 

Akaashi gasps and looks towards the ceiling. Ships float above, their sails drawn by wind. 

He’s back in his nightmare. The final stage. He has already sunk in the tar. Watching the world from the perspective of a drowned sailor. 

He cries for a while, long after the music has ended. And for once it is not due to grief. 

_I can still be moved. I can still feel._

Akaashi realises he’s quite close to reaching the end of the tunnel. 

Through his tears, he sees Hoot sitting on the rail, studying him from the balcony. 

In its beak is a letter. 

  
  
❆  
  


“Don’t blame me if I fall asleep,” says Kenma. 

Kuroo opens an arm and he snuggles close. Chibi lies sprawled on his lap, its black fur like spines. 

“I’ll wake you up if you do,” Kuroo says. 

He presses play and a galaxy fades into view on the black screen. 

_“Oh, lonesome night. And babbits bawling, the wind biting the bone … ”_

_Cloud Atlas_ is a long movie. Since they plan on watching it in a single sitting, it will be some time before they’re free. 

  
  
❆  
  


That night, Kuroo goes out after Kenma has fallen asleep. 

No particular destination. Only aimless wandering through the streets of Tokyo. Akaashi used to accompany him before, but he’s finally been getting some sleep at night. Kuroo now walks alone. 

He contemplates buying a bicycle. Maybe he’ll end up travelling all over Japan someday. 

He’ll only stop once he reaches the sea. 

_Cloud Atlas_ has left an impression. So much plot, so many intricate connections, but the foundation is astoundingly simple. 

Kindness. Love. Gravity. That’s all it is. 

He buys a pack of cigarettes and takes a drag. The ash glows and falls like a shooting star. 

When he looks up, a stray light floats above him. One can almost mistake it for a flying lantern. 

It leaves a trail of smoke as it zigzags across the night. The motions are erratic, like the lantern is caught in a storm. 

It takes Kuroo a moment to realise there are words spelled out in the sky. 

Only two. 

_Go home._

Kuroo stares at the message and feels a smile on his lips. Then he turns around and heads back as the letters fade with the wind. 

  
  
❆  
  


  
__

_Dear Bokuto._

_I’ve tried several times to write to you, but I never end up finishing the letter. I wonder why. I decided to be as honest with you as you’re with me, but it’s impossible to suddenly change overnight. I need to take little steps. A drop of honesty at a time._

_I think I’ve finally figured out what Nekomata-sensei meant by ‘stars’ in his Six Pillars of Life. I could be wrong, but this is the only explanation that makes sense to me._

_Friendship. Fellowship. Companionship. In simple terms._

_It was what you said that got me thinking. About coming from dust and returning to it. If we think a bit bigger, maybe we’ll see how stars come into play._

_But knowing is one thing, trying to live it is quite another._

_I miss you._

_There, I said it. My drop of honesty._

_I miss you so much._

_You can’t blame me for it. You can’t hold it against me for wanting more from life, not when you’re just as much if not more demanding of it._

_But I admit: This helps. Knowing this will reach you helps._

_The only thing that hurt me more than losing you was when I called your number and heard it didn’t exist anymore. It was like they were making it official. “He doesn’t exist anymore.”_

_But that’s a misconception, isn’t it? We never cease to exist. We can’t. Once we are matter, we never stop mattering._

_You matter to me. It hurts how much you do. But it’s a good hurt. I wouldn’t want to give up this pain._

_I’m slowly learning to live my life again. It’s like rebirth. Like starting over a game. And just like playing a game, it gets easier with each try._

_I take inspiration from the violinist who lives in the opposite building. Their skills have improved. The noise is gradually transforming into music._

_My dreams and nightmares have reduced, but when I do get them, they’re always the same. You in my arms, the sun in your face. You tell me you found me, and I agree because you truly have. You have found me._

_And then the dream continues._

_What once ended on a sweet note turns into a nightmare. The sun sets and it’s midnight all of a sudden. The hours in between are lost._

_Our bedroom fills with tar. It seeps through the cracks in the doors and windows and walls. A sponge absorbing black ink._

_We float in it, you and I. We hold on to each other. The rest is darkness._

_And just when I begin to wonder if this nightmare will ever end, stars come alive like fireflies in summer. They shine around us, if not for us. I always feel a bit short of breath when I see you in starlight. You are beautiful, Koutarou._

_And the room is no longer a box, but an entire galaxy._

_When I wake up, I’m smiling._

_Did you do this? Did you tinker with my grief? How can I smile at what scared me to death last year? You magician. You maniac._

_(From your previous letter: “I keep worrying you’ll grow too attached to me now that you know I’m not actually gone.”_

_Really? Whatever makes you think I’m too attached to you? Hilarious.)_

_I remember you asking for a memory of snow. “Let me have this,” you said. So I’m sending you a snow globe. Just like the ring you gave me, it’s not the real thing. You can’t have all, but you can have this. And you’ll always have me._

_Stop coming to my dreams only to repeat the same sentence. Dreams are quite flexible, you know. Use your imagination next time._

_[Note to self.]_

_I’ll write to you soon. Maybe even pay a visit on Christmas. Hinata won’t be able to deny me._

  
_Your love,_  
_Akaashi._  


_P.S. The Bible got it half-right. We’ll find each other again. “For stardust we are, and to stardust shall we return.”_

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> What more to say here except a huge “Thank You” to the ones who made it this far?
> 
> Thank you, gentle readers, for taking the time to read this.
> 
> Let me leave you with one of my favourite quotes from one of my favourite fictional characters.
>
>> _“Sometimes life is like this dark tunnel. You can't always see the light at the end of the tunnel, but if you just keep moving, you will come to a better place … In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself.”_  
> 
> 
> Illustration by my beautiful friend (who has no social media accounts to be linked, unfortunately).
> 
> [My Twitter (opened due to peer pressure.)](https://twitter.com/sallyhopewrites?s=09)


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